


All Your Mountains Turn to Rocks (all your oceans turn to drops)

by vailkagami



Series: Within the Dissolve [7]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: M/M, Rape, Torture, on a personal level at least, this is the one in which everything goes to shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-21 19:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13748154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vailkagami/pseuds/vailkagami
Summary: Ornstein was well aware that he and Artorias were breaking an unwritten law, but the consequences are worse than he could have possibly foreseen.Set betweenSilenceandThe Falling of Shadows. Familiarity with the rest of the series is not strictly necessary, though it helps.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be another multi-chaptered story, possibly the longest of this entire series. I am presently a little unclear on where to put the chapter breaks, so the predicted number of chapters might change.
> 
> Warnings will be added along with the next chapters I post. So far I have not decided how rigorously I will edit what I have written, but I hope posting the next chapter will not take all that long.
> 
> The title is taken from the song _Pride and Joy_ by Brandi Carlile.

A delegation from Carim was in Lordran, and things were tense. Ornstein knew the people of Carim as ambitious and cunning, and not above lowly trickery to further their goals. Their ambassador had come to request free travel through Lordran on their way to the city state of Thorolund, where they wanted to, if the theocracy of Thorolund would allow it, establish a base for easier access to the small country of Erres, to the east. It was obvious that they were aiming for annexation of Erres, whose soil was rich with valuable ore and whose people had learned how to refine that ore to magical properties. And Ornstein was convinced that, for all their polite and humble appearance at Gwyn's court, the people of Carim would swiftly take small Thorolund as well.

Thorolund was the place of residence of many powerful clerics, so Carim might not have as easy a victory as they imagined, but with the element of surprise and slow undermining, they could avoid much trouble, and if they managed to turn some of the clerics to their side, Thorolund was as good as lost. But Thorolund was also under the protection of Anor Londo, its ruling family loyal followers of the Lord of Sunlight, and Gwyn would not budge in his refusal of Carim's request.

He could not, for diplomatic reasons, say openly that he expected them to take the country, nor could he possibly imply that Carim's ambitions were watched with concern. The negotiations stretched long, and grew increasingly tense, for Carim's ambassador would not accept defeat easily and was determined to take at least a small concession back home to his rulers. Ornstein spend hours standing behind Gwyn's throne as a sign of respect as well as a silent threat, with Artorias taking the other side, just as silent and intimidating.

Artorias had come back from New Londo only this morning and Ornstein imagined he was tired and aching, yet he never moved unless he had do, or showed any sign of discomfort, just as was expected of a knight of his position. It would have been convenient, just for occasions such as this, if Ciaran were tall enough to be impressive, or Gough small enough to leave room for the table, so Artorias would not have to do this. Even Ornstein eventually reached the point where the meeting seemed to go on forever and every new point brought up when another had been dealt with made him want to stab the speaker.

Much later, when all was finally said and done and the representatives of Carim were preparing to leave, Ornstein met Artorias on the balcony connecting the wings of the cathedral that housed their personal quarters. It was the first time Ornstein had seen him alone and out of his armor since his arrival, and his appearance came as a shock. When Ornstein approached him he was leaning heavily onto the balustrade, his breaths deep and slow, like a person breathing through the pain, and when he looked up, black hair framed a face that was paler and more tired than the dragon slayer had expected, with something like despair etched into the thin lines beside the corner of his mouth.

He straightened his posture and his face turned carefully blank when he realized he was no longer alone. Ornstein thought about reprimanding him as a commander, for hiding weakness that might affect him, or remind him as a friend that there was no reason to pretend with him. He did neither, but simply asked him to come along, leading him to his own rooms, where he offered a drink and asked about his mission to New Londo.

The drink was strong, but not strong enough to affect them. None of the knights of Gwyn consumed alcohol to the point where it impeded their actions, even in times of peace and quiet, and not even when they looked like they needed it badly. Ornstein did not offer a second one nor did he take one himself. The liquid in Artorias' glass sloshed ever so slightly with the faint trembling of his hands, but his voice was steady as he reported about the latest events in the valley as one would report to a commander.

Things were not going badly, but they were not going well either. Artorias could fend off the attacks when they came, but knew they would simply keep coming unless he found a way to stop the Abyss itself, and that, they all knew, was not likely to ever going to happen. Not with the means at his disposal. He kept fighting for the people of New Londo and their kings, but it must feel like a losing battle that was futile in the end.

The thing that truly got to him, however – the reason why his hands were shaking even now and his eyes were haunted – was the Abyss itself. Artorias had found entry points at several places inside the city and around it, and usually they were able to seal them until they opened again somewhere else. But every time they found one, Artorias went inside as far as he could, trying to clean them out of darkwraiths and perhaps find a way deeper inside that would not kill him, despite the fact that the contact with the Dark was obviously more than he could bear.

It was the way it touched the darkness inside any person that came across it, Ornstein gathered, though having never touched the Abyss himself he could only speculate what it was like. It was this darkness in the hearts of men that fell for it. Greed, lust for power, fear, desire – perhaps the Abyss merely eroded the bounds that kept men from taking what they wanted. Or maybe it planted thoughts and urges that were not there before. Ornstein was not convinced of that, knowing that humans were, by nature, selfish and thirsting for power, and the Abyss resonated with their humanity more than anything else. Yet Artorias spoke of things he felt when near that Dark that were alien and like something reaching for his mind and heart from the outside. He spoke, eventually, of the fear in him that he would not be able to fight it off in the end, and how shamefully he dreaded going near the Abyss for it, even if he always ended up doing what he needed to do.

Again, Ornstein could only imagine what it was like for Artorias, one of the most selfless and noble men he had ever known. What defenses could he have against this kind of darkness if he barely had any himself? Perhaps Artorias truly was the best choice for this kind of fight, which he had chosen himself because someone had to. Perhaps he was the last person who should take on the Abyss.

It was not the only thing going through Ornstein's mind as he watched his friend struggle to hold his composure as memories and lingering dark threatened to overwhelm him. Another was that he must have felt this way every time he came into contact with the Abyss and they had not even noticed, and that he likely would not have allowed himself to admit to his fear and display his distress in this manner with anyone else.

It was an honor he was being bestowed here, in a way. Artorias would not show this level of trust and familiarity if he did not think Ornstein above judging him for it. The dragon slayer was certain that the other knight, these days called the Abysswalker by the people of Lordran and the surrounding kingdoms, had not simply reached the end of his rope just today. Letting go like this had not been a conscious decision, but it was something Artorias could have prevented from happening had he felt the need.

And yet, he was not truly letting go. Ornstein could see it in the tension of his shoulders under his thin shirt, in the way his empty hand opened and closed, the forced heaviness of his breath. Even now he was fighting the imprints of the Abyss on his mind, the pull of a darkness that he did not understand, and perhaps, even if it was not a hope he was aware he had, Artorias thought that maybe if he opened up to Ornstein he would, just this once, not have to go through this alone.

Where was Sif in all of this? Was she affected at all? Did she help at all? Was it worse because she was not here? It did not matter, for Ornstein was, and the least he could do for helping his friend with his fight against the Dark was to give him something else to focus on.

“How you made it through that meeting with your sanity intact is beyond me,” Ornstein mused, only half joking.

“It was very long.” Artorias gave him a shaky smile. “Yet important. Carim's expansion is something to look out for.”

“No doubt. Yet the session was going in circles for too long, and even I was glad when we were dismissed.” Ornstein put his own glass aside and then went to take Artorias' half empty one from his fingers. “I can give you something better to occupy your mind.”

Artorias' eyes went wide, even as he let Ornstein take away his drink. He did not resist when the other knight cupped his face with his strong, calloused hands and leaned closer.

Ornstein thought about how he had not resisted when he had kissed him so many years ago, and how he had returned the kiss in the very end – before Ornstein had had to break it. Would he allow this now? Before Ornstein could close the last distance between them, Artorias shrank away ever so slightly, saying, “We should not.”

He did not tell Ornstein to stop. “No one will know, or care. What harm will it do?” This time he did close the distance and Artorias let him. He let out a sound like surprise or distress but did not resist – neither when Ornstein pressed his lips against him, nor when he took his wrist and pulled him up and towards the bed.

“If you want me to stop, I will,” Ornstein promised as he gently pushed his hesitant partner down onto the soft covers. Artorias did not tell him to stop, but he still looked doubtful, and he still looked like the darkness was eating his soul.

“Do not think about anything,” Orntsein told him. “Let me take care of everything and simply focus on my touch.”

Artorias did not resist as Ornstein pulled the shirt off his body and then pulled off his own. It was warm – Anor Londo always was – and the bed was very soft as he pressed Artorias down onto it. Artorias was taller, but Ornstein was the stronger of the two, his muscles more defined where Artorias was lean and slender. For a moment the dragon slayer simply knelt over the other knight, marveling at the plain yet graceful beauty of the others' form, from the fine features and the very long, very straight black hair to the pale skin that Ornstein had never before noticed complemented his own bronze tone perfectly.

He could admit now, if only to himself, that he had wanted to do this for a long time. But that was not why he was doing it. Artorias needed this right now, if only because he needed _something_. And Ornstein was willing to give it to him.

He was very aware, and had been since the first time they kissed, that as little experience as he had with things such as this, Artorias had less. Perhaps none at all. But he lay back none the less and closed his eyes as Ornstein told him to and whispered, “Just _feel_ this.”

Artorias trembled and twitched softly underneath his touch and Ornstein trailed his fingers over his skin, savoring as much as he gave. Perhaps this would be the only time, but Ornstein refused to think about that, focusing on the moment as he had told Artorias to do. He learned, from the noises and the movements that the other made, where he was sensitive, where he preferred not to be touched. Ornstein soon found himself trailing old scars from battle and avoiding those orderly, systematic ones Artorias had brought back from captivity. He took his time, and from the way Artorias slowly relaxed under his touch, it was well worth it.

It took a long time to get anywhere, and in the end they did not even consummate anything all the way. Ornstein wanted it but it was not what Artorias needed right there and then, and so he did not even ask or offer. But a beginning had been made. A possibility had been created, and the next time Artorias was called to Anor Londo after a long time of fighting the Abyss somewhere else, he came to Ornstein's quarters on his own, entering through the open door to the balcony, silently asking for company, and for the comfort Ornstein was ready to give.

Things went further this time, but only later, after a long time of Ornstein simply taking care of Artorias who had been barely holding on to his composure when he came to him – and for a long time of watching him so desperate for any kind of distraction to lose himself in, Ornstein was angry with the kings of New Londo for their inability to deal with this problem themselves that was first and foremost _their_ problem. And he was angry with Gwyn for wasting such a brilliant gem of a person on a cause that was wearing him down to nothing and may just as well have been lost from the start.

He kept all of those thoughts to himself. They were not fair or just anyway; Gwyn did what he had to do to keep the Abyss contained. Not only was New Londo part of his kingdom and therefore his to protect, the Abyss, if left alone, might just as well one day threaten all of Lordran and even the world.

Artorias was the one best suited for the work, as he was the one who knew the Abyss and its creatures best of all among those with the skill and willingness to fight them.

And while the fight often seemed futile, they could only speculate on how bad things would be now if Artorias were not there to contain the outbreaks whenever they occurred.

It seemed Ornstein was simply concerned for his friend and loathed seeing him hurt. It made him angry at those who were responsible for it, but he was was too old and too disciplined to allow that anger to blind him as to where it came from, or let him act on it.

This time, after the first painful desperation was gone from Artorias' eyes and he was able to lose himself in the unfamiliar pleasure his friend was giving him, Ornstein allowed himself to go further than before, and when Artorias did not stop him, he allowed the low, glimmering desire in him to flame up into true, if careful, passion. Until this point he had kept a hold on his own want, but now there no longer was a reason not to act on it.

When he finally took Artorias there on his wide and luxurious bed, he did it slowly and gently, and all the time wondering if he was the first. It seemed, judging by Artorias' reaction to everything he did, that he was. It was not surprising. Their code of honor as knights forbade relations with other knights, and carnal activities with other people were frowned upon, if not outright forbidden. And lords such as them were not drawn to sexual encounters the same way humans were, with such intensity and so often. Artorias even, until now, never seemed to have had any interest at all.

Ornstein wondered if this could ever have happened if not for the Abyss wearing Artorias down. He knew that _he_ had wanted it for a long time, but did not know if for Artorias this was anything other than convenience. Would he seek this kind of relief from anyone else? Ornstein did not believe so. That was not Artorias' way.

And he did not like the idea.

They both made sure to be very quiet, for the balcony door was still open, and while no one would be out there that was not one of them, they could not risk the sound carrying. It reminded Ornstein that what they were doing was not allowed, and that they knew it.

It still did not feel like a crime, nor like much of a violation of honor. No one was harmed through it.

And yet. At some point, in the aftermath, when Artorias was slowly drifting into peaceful sleep, Ornstein turned to look at the sky and saw Knight Ulfwen standing in the open door to the balcony, staring at them from underneath his face plate. Ornstein stared back, and though no words were spoken, it was enough to pull Artorias back to awareness.

What Ulfwen had been doing there, Ornstein would never know. Had it been a coincidence, though this balcony was no place for the other knight to be? Had he been spying on them? Had he, perhaps, happened to see that kiss years ago and tried ever since to see them take it further? None of these questions were ever asked aloud, and none were ever answered. In this moment, Ulfwen turned around and left without a word, and Ornstein and Artorias quickly washed up and got dressed to await Lord Gwyn who would doubtlessly come to see them about this, and inform them of the consequences of their transgression.

Instead of Gwyn, however, six armed soldiers showed up at Ornstein's quarters an hour later to arrest them both.


	2. Chapter 2

It was days before Ornstein saw anyone but the guards. The soldiers did not take them to Gwyn; they escorted Ornstein up the stairs of the prison to a cell in the tower, overlooking the execution square. No action had taken place down there in a while. Certainly, Smough was getting bored. Ornstein hoped this placement had no meaning. Surely their transgression was not nearly bad enough to warrant death, or even harsh punishment.

There would be consequences. Ornstein accepted that. They had broken an unspoken yet generally accepted agreement, after all. They might lose their places as Gwyn's knights, and as he sat on the bench of his cell, clad only in his trousers and with a chain shackling his ankle to the wall, he dreaded this more than anything else. Who was he, if not one of Gywn's knight?

Would he be able to accept such a verdict with grace and dignity, as he hoped? And who would replace him? Gough was not a leader, and Ciaran could not lead the Lord's Blades and the knights. And Artorias was as caught in this as Ornstein was.

He did not know where the other man had been taken. They had been separated after entering the prison, and Ornstein had been too proud to turn and look where Artorias was being led, not wanting to indicate any kind of weakness. Was Artorias shackled in a cell like him? Or was he with Gwyn, able to argue their case?

Ornstein hoped it was the latter. Certainly Gwyn was very angry with them, but he had to hear them at some point, as a just ruler did. And they had served him loyally for centuries; Ornstein longer than that. He knew they would be heard, he knew they would receive a punishment that may be harsh, but still fair. And yet with every hour that went by in silence his apprehension grew, as did his guilt. It was him who had initiated things, and it felt now like he had taken advantage of Artorias' fragile state. And that aside, he was the leader, the one responsible. It ought to be him who got punished, if anyone was to be punished at all.

Artorias would never use any kind of excuse to defend himself, especially not one that placed the blame on someone else, and Ornstein worried about him. By the second day with only the guard bringing him food to come to him, what he wanted most was for someone to tell him what had become of his friend.

He could not think of him as a lover. They were not allowed to take lovers and he never saw himself having one. But Artorias was a dear friend that Ornstein cared deeply about and felt responsible for. The guilt and uncertainty weighed heavily on him, yet he managed to remain composed and dignified when, on the third day, Lord Gwyn finally came to see him.

The moment the cell door opened and admitted his ruler, Ornstein got up and then sank to his knee, bowing his head. “My Lord,” he said.

His submissive greeting was followed by a long moment of silence. Finally, Gwyn gestured for his guards to leave them alone and close the door.

“Knight Ornstein.” His voice was heavy. “I could not believe what I heard when Knight Ulfwen reported to me what he had seen.”

And yet I am here, Ornstein thought, but did not say. He said, in fact, nothing.

“I have come to hear what you have to say in your favor,” his Lord continued.

“Lord Gwyn, I have little to say to make light of my guilt,” Ornstein admitted. “I knew that it was wrong to do what I did with a fellow knight, and yet I did it. I betrayed you and your trust in this manner, and all I can say in my defense is that I had not planned for it to happen and would not have done it had I believed the action to bring any harm on those around me. I must, however, speak in favor of Knight Artorias, as it was I who–”

“I did not come here to hear you speak for anyone else, Knight Ornstein. Artorias will have the chance to be heard.”

So he had not been heard already? Ornstein's heart sank as it became apparent that Artorias was in a cell somewhere, just like him.

He wanted to explain the situation to his lord, to tell him about how Artorias needed comfort and distraction because the mission Gwyn had send him on was eating him alive, but that would have sounded defiant, and it would have sounded like he was blaming Artorias for this, when it had been him using his friend's weakness to get something that he had wanted all along. He said instead, “There is no excuse for what I did. I will accept any punishment that fits the crime.”

He looked up in time to see Gwyn's eyes narrow at his words. “A punishments that fit the crime would require making the crime known, and I cannot allow that to happen, although you would surely deserve the shame it brought upon you for your weakness. I had expected better of you, my knight.” He sounded like a disappointed father, and Ornstein once again lowered his eyes.

“Forgive me, my Lord.”

“We shall see. You will remain here for however long I see fit, and however long it takes me to find a way to handle this situation you have brought upon me. Things are happening in the world and we need to appear strong, yet your selfishness has forced me to throw my two strongest warriors into prison. You meant no harm, but harm you caused, and I could try you for treason.”

This time Ornstein looked up in shock. He had not seen this coming. Eyes filled with calm, cold fury stared down upon him. For the first time he realized just how _angry_ the Lord of Sunlight was.

“My Lord,” he started, and did not know how to continue from there.

He did not have to try. Gwyn was not finished. “Not only did you have to sink so low as to go against my orders behind my back, you also had to bring Artorias down with you. _Artorias_. Out of all the people in this kingdom. You could have gone to any peasant woman or man who would have you and I would not have cared. There are hundreds who would be glad to serve your every desire. But for you, it had to be Artorias.”

Ornstein kept his face blank as he met his lord's eyes. “Yes,” he said with honesty that surprised even him. “It had to be.”

It was the wrong thing to say; he saw it in the way Gwyn's jaw tightened the moment he heard the words.

“It will not happen again. Do you hear me?”

“I do,” Ornstein agreed. It could not; not if these were the consequences. Other knights had had relations over the years, other knights had been caught. Gwyn had never cared past a sharp reprimand. It was obvious now that the same rules did not apply for them.

Or perhaps the same rules simply did not apply for Artorias. _It had to be him._ Realization dawned in Ornstein, even as Gwyn asked, “Can you swear on your honor that it will not?”

“I can.” He once again looked his lord in the eyes. “And on Artorias' honor as well.”

Gwyn stared in silence. Then he pulled out a knife, gathered Ornstein's long, wild hair behind his neck, and with a swift stroke of his blade cut it off, to carelessly toss it aside. “You will stay in here until your hair reaches your shoulders again, or until your kingdom needs you. Whatever happens first.”

Ornstein nodded his understanding, even as dread began to creep into his heart. It would be weeks, perhaps more than a month until his hair had grown that much.

“Afterward, we will never speak of this again. There will be no reminder of it from any of you. And you will never be alone with Artorias again for as long as either of us draw breath.”

This time Gwyn did not ask if he had understood. He simply waited until the meaning of his words had sunk in. Ornstein could accept never touching Artorias again, but to never again be alone with him, to speak without another person hearing their words was too cruel. There were things he was not comfortable sharing with anyone else, advise he liked to get from his wise and level headed companion on things he did not want anyone to know he had doubts about. And Artorias would not share his pain and weariness with him if they were not alone. From now on, Ornstein could not even offer him the small relief of sharing his burden.

And yet if they ever defied this order, there would be a price to pay too hefty for either of them to accept. Ornstein understood that perfectly.

“No one but the guards will come to see you until your penalty has been declared over.” Gwyn knocked on the door to signal that he was done. “You will be released early if we need your services. You would do well to stay in shape.”

The door fell shut behind him. Ornstein heard the lock snapping closed, and when he moved, the chain pulled heavily on his ankle. The shackle, although not necessary to restrain him, had not been removed. Already, the skin beneath was bruised. Ornstein, who had survived countless battles and innumerable injuries, was not hindered by it, and yet he hoped that Artorias was spared at least this discomfort, wherever he was.

He could only hope that his friend could forgive him for bringing this upon them. He hung his head in despair when he realized that he would never have a moment alone with him to ask.

  


-

  


While Gwyn had intended to go and see his knights right after he had them brought to their cells, it took him three days to go and talk to Ornstein. As submissive and accepting of his guilt the leader of his elite was, the meeting still left Gwyn angry and out of balance, and – again against his initial intentions – it took another day for him to make his way down into the dungeon, where Artorias was waiting in a damp cell lit by the dim glow of the stones set into the walls, not by the daylight that never reached this place.

The stones could be removed, leaving the prisoners in complete darkness. Many a man had been driven mad by being left in the echoing blackness for too long. Gwyn did not believe this could happen to Artorias.

He was not in darkness now. Gwyn had sufficient light to take in everything as he entered the cell. Other than Ornstein, Artorias had not been stripped of all but his trousers and shackled by the ankle. Instead, he had been stripped completely naked and was kneeling on the rough stone floor, his wrists in iron and forced over his head by a chain from the ceiling. The position was, no doubt, meant to cause discomfort, and Gwyn suspected that he had been kneeling like this since his arrest four days ago.

There was enough light to make out the smears of blood underneath his knees, and the bruises on his arms and shoulders. Gwyn had told his soldiers to be rough with him. He regretted it now, but would not admit to it by releasing Artorias from his torturous position. And somewhere inside him, the sight gave him satisfaction, on a level dark and petty that he was reluctant to acknowledge existed.

Artorias looked up when he entered, then lowered his head; impossibly, the gesture looked like a bow more than anything else. “My lord,” he acknowledged his sovereign's presence, his voice only a little rough.

Gwyn looked down at the kneeling man, the hair flowing down his back like a black curtain, the lean muscles trembling ever so slightly with the effort of maintaining his position. He felt an urge to strike him, release his anger and betrayal and, yes, humiliation unto this helpless form, and he knew that not a single creature would have held it against him, except for himself. Artorias would have taken it as just punishment if Gwyn thought this was what he deserved.

The mere thought, the idea of inflicting physical harm upon this man, was disgusting Gywn. And yet his thoughts lingered for a moment on the notion of having the tools of interrogation brought to them and find out in the cruelest way possible who else Artorias had allowed to take him over they years he had been in Gwyn's service.

If he said no one, Gywn would believe him, but he would have to keep trying to make sure. His disgust in himself for even toying with these ideas grew.

His hands, that suddenly seemed so large, finally made contact with Artorias' fine-boned face by gently taking his chin and forcing him to look up. “Explain yourself, Knight,” he commanded. “What was it that made you let your captain take you to bed?”

“Moment's folly, my Lord,” Artorias replied. “And yet I was well aware of what I was doing and that it was not allowed. I accept full responsibility for my transgression.”

“So it was you who initiated this. For Orntein told me it had been him making it happen. Did he lie to me?”

“No, my Lord. I am certain that he does feel as responsible as he told you he was. But it was I who came to him, fully aware of what might happen. Ornstein was... taking care of me as he believed a captain ought to do. He was misguided, but meant no harm. Please, I beg of you, do not punish him too harshly.”

Gwyn let his hand trail along Artorias' cheek until his fingers combed through the silken hair. “And what about you, my knight – speaking to me like that while bleeding on your knees?”

Artorias lowered his eyes. “I accept any punishment you see fit to bestow upon me.”

Gwyn's eyes narrowed, even as pride surged through him. His knights were, after all, honorable men, who took responsibility for their mistakes. It did not change that mistakes had been made and needed to be punished.

Gwyn's knife cut through Artorias' hair as it had through Ornstein's, leaving it to frame his face in uneven strands. Like Ornstein, he did not flinch, or even blink at the degrading action. As neither of them usually exposed their heads on official missions, no one would see them on such anytime soon and no explanations would have to be given.

“My Lord, please let me speak but a moment,” Artorias asked after Gwyn had told him how long he had to expect his imprisonment to be. Gwyn considered telling him off for it, harshly, but was intrigued despite himself, as Artorias rarely had anything to say on his personal behalf. When he did not deny the request, his knight continued, “I deeply regret, as I believe does Sir Ornstein, any grief or shame we have caused you personally. We did not think our actions to have consequences beyond the personal, and I can only ask for forgiveness for our shortsighted selfishness. However,” he went on, just as Gwyn meant to interrupt. “I have left things in New Londo unfinished, as well you know. Should the Abyss break out again, I am the best choice to fight it due to the experience I have gathered so far. I therefore ask of you, for the sake of your kingdom, to allow me to go to New Londo should the need arise, even if my sentence is not yet completed. I swear by my honor as a knight and by my love for you that I will return to bear the rest of my punishment.”

He looked at Gwyn with anxious eyes; so concerned for the people whose safety had been placed into his hands, with no concern for himself. Gwyn was neither surprised nor satisfied, as this was what a knight ought to be. He did, however, acknowledge that no other embodied the noble traits of knighthood as this man kneeling naked and in irons before him did.

“Do not worry, or think me foolish,” Gwyn reprimanded him. “Far be it from me to let the missteps of the likes of you endanger my people. You will be released for any business you are needed for. I do, however, hold the hope that the Abyss will wait for you to have served your sentence and returned to the place you held before.”

Artorias' tired and bloodshot eyes widened slightly. “So we are still your knights, then?”

“I can imagine none better than the two of you,” Gwyn confessed, “even now. You were merely not as good as I had made you out to be.”

Artorias lowered his eyes in shame. Gwyn saw his arms twitch as his muscles cramped and once again contemplated his shackles, the skin of his wrists looking raw and bruised beneath. But it would be a weakness to be too merciful now, to tell the wardens to be harsh and then retract that order once he saw the consequences of that harshness. He would leave it to the guards to offer Artorias relief when they saw fit. He needed to be strong enough to be in fighting condition on short notice, should the need indeed arise.

“I will leave my orders with the warden,” he told his knight, “to treat you as you ought to be treated during your incarceration. I will not see you again until the day of your release, nor will anyone else. You will never again see Knight Ornstein in private, for as long as you serve me.”

Artorias sat very still. Then he bowed his head. “I understand. We betrayed you and now you can no longer trust us.”

 _Oh, but I do trust you, my dear knight,_ Gwyn thought. _I trust your loyalty, and I trust your promise, and I trust your regret. This is not about trust; it is about punishment. I am doing this to hurt you._

He thought this to himself. He admitted it to himself. He would never admit it to anyone else.

  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains torture and rape.

The passage of time soon lost all meaning. Without even the eternal daylight of Anor Londo, Artorias felt as if he was lost in an endless night without beginning or end. He sometimes heard the heavy footsteps of the wardens passing outside his cell. Sometimes he heard voices talking too far away for him to make out what was being said. Most of the time it was quiet.

A guard wearing the concealing mask of his profession came every now and then and made him drink from a bowl of broth, but it happened so irregularly that he could not count the days by it. The sustenance he was granted was enough to keep him alive, but not enough to keep up his strength, and the position he had been forced into would make it impossible for him to move normally for a long time after he was released. He tried to bear it without complaint for days, but the thought of being let go to fight for New Londo only to be unable to lift his sword made him finally speak up when, after an especially long time with no contact, the warden came with his meal.

He did not say much before a blow to the face made it very clear that he was not to speak to anyone unless spoken to. Artorias, however, did not give up, knowing that once the other man realized why he needed to be in fighting condition, he would have to listen for the sake of the people Artorias would be unable to protect otherwise. So he kept trying, until a kick to the stomach took his breath and his voice. When the warden left, he took the glow stones with him, leaving his prisoner in total darkness for a long, long time.

When finally someone came for him, Artorias' throat was raw from lack of water, and he was dizzy with hunger. He had drifted, hanging half-unconscious in his chains, and when the door was thrown open even the torch light falling in through the opening was enough to sting his eyes.

He never got a chance to get used to the light. Figures stormed into his cell in a manner that instinctively made him flinch back, and within seconds rough hands pulled back his head by his hair and tied a strip of cloth over his eyes.

Artorias never tried to protest or ask them to stop. He saw, even before being fully awake, that these men had come here with the intention to hurt him, and nothing he could do or say would stop them. Yet there was confusion as one of them stepped carelessly on his naked foot and a length of rope was tied loosely around his neck like a promise of things to come. They would not go against Lord Gwyn's wishes like this, would they? What reason would they have to risk his wrath? Artorias could no recall crossing anyone in Anor Londo in such a manner as to make them hate him enough for this. Yet Gwyn would not order it, as he wanted him strong enough to fight if he had to. Did he not? In his weak and dehydrated state, Artorias' mind had trouble grasping that thought. Soon, he knew nothing beyond the pain and a cold, yet distant terror as his hips were seized in a brutal grip and pulled up so that his abused arms had to bear even more of his weight.

Everything soon turned into a blur, scrambling his thoughts and mixing the present with recollections of the past that he had believed long behind him and that was nothing like Ornstein's touch in his last memory before this place. (When his elbow dislocated with a sharp pain that did not let up, he could not tell if happened now or had happened then, or if there was any difference.) When finally he regained some awareness, there was light again, and the first deep breath he tried made him choke on the sticky substance clogging his throat.

There were more hands touching him, and even though they were gentle and careful, he tried to jerk away from them, hurting himself further when the chains stopped him. Then there was the heat of a healing spell running through his arm and then nothing, interrupted by impressions of being icy cold to the very core, and shaking so badly that his limbs would not have been able to support him even if they had the chance.

When they came to feed him he was too weak to resist their touch. Someone tilt back his head and held the bowl of broth to his lips as if none of it had ever happened. Artorias swallowed some before he choked and coughed and vomited everything out again. A bucket of water was emptied before him, washing away the mess, and Artorias was too hurt and exhausted to be ashamed of the relief he felt when the cool water touched his raw and hot knees. When someone came to feed him water for the first time in days, he felt grateful more than anything else.

He was a little more aware after that. It was not a blessing. His head pounded and memories still mixed with confused thoughts. He felt like he had been very sick for a long time. Maybe everything had been a terrible dream...

When he tried to move his arms, he could. The pain it caused him, however, spoke of recent injuries beyond the strain of being chained as he was. Artorias accepted his memories as real, even as another wave of nausea ran through him.

Someone came to see him briefly after, even though Gwyn had said no one would. It was Ulfwen, the leader of Gwyn's palace guards and the only knight in Anor Londo who followed only Gwyn, without Ornstein having any power over him. The one who had seen them and told his lord, as they had known he would. He was standing in front of Artorias now, looking down at him from underneath the helmet that covered most of his features.

“You strike a pitiful posture, Knight Artorias,” he said slowly. “Pray tell, is there anything that you would like to complain about regarding our treatment in this place?”

There was open challenge in his voice. Artorias stared at him as cold realization pooled into him like acid. He could only shake his head, not trusting his voice to speak; not even trusting himself to have a voice right now.

“Good.” Ulfwen reached out his hand and trailed it through strands of hair that hung down to Artorias' collarbone and that he only now noticed were damp. “There has been some concern upstairs. Everyone will be very glad to hear that you are fine, and well enough to make it through the rest of your sentence.”

He left before Artorias could say anything. Artorias had nothing to say. He hung in his chains, his knees sending waves of agony through him every time he shifted his weight to relieve his arms, and froze, breathless, every time the heavy steps of the wardens moved past the door to his cell. He took the water they brought him, and drank the broth, and painfully settled back into the routine of his imprisonment that pretended nothing had changed. Until, after what felt like many days, the door slammed open while he was drifting near oblivion and they came upon him again.

  


-

  


It started when the wolf Sif, who had been lingering around the cathedral ever since Artorias had been arrested nearly a month ago, attacked two men on the training grounds. Of course that was not true; it had started when Artorias and Ornstein were arrested; Sif's attack, however, was when bad things took a turn for the worse.

After centuries of seeing her at his friend's side, Gough knew the wolf very well. He knew she was not by nature violent and would never attack without reason. When armed guards tried to drag her away from the man getting his arm mutilated by her teeth in an attempt to protect his throat and one of them raised his lance, he interfered. It ended with Sif locked away in a cage but alive – at the very least until the reason for her behavior could be found.

Gough understood that she was angry; furious. She did not attack randomly but rather wanted the death of those two men specifically. He could not understand her like Artorias could, but when he learned that her victims were wardens in the dungeon where Artorias was held, dread spread through him from the things this simple fact implied.

Ciaran was the one to go to Gwyn and speak on behalf of the wolf. She later told Gough that their Lord had been reluctant to acknowledge the possibility that anyone would have hurt Artorias in any way without his order, and this, for all he insisted on punishing his knights, was an order they knew he would not give. Still he would not allow them to go down to the cells and see their friend, but the law required him to have Sif executed for any unwarranted attack, and so he at least send down his trusted knight Ulfwen in their stead.

Artorias would not take it well if Sif were to come to harm during his absence. Gough feared that if Gwyn were to have the wolf killed without so much as investigating the reasons for her behavior, it would create a rift between them that, for all of Artorias' loyalty to his lord, may never be breached.

Gwyn knew this as well, and Gough suspected that it was this fact, rather than his faith in the wolf's honor, that made him send Ulfwen to see Artorias in his cell.

Gough would rather have gone himself. He could not read Ulfwen well, and therefore did not trust him on a personal level. He knew, however, that the other knight was loyal to Gwyn to his death and would report any wrong that had been committed against his wishes.

He did know Sif, and knew she was no wild beast, even if her mood had been very bad since Artorias had been taken from her. So he was dismayed rather than relieved to hear from his Lord that, according to Ulfwen, Artorias had not suffered any ills in his incarceration beyond those that may be expected to befall a man in chains.

Gough pondered this information, and the consequences this would have for Sif, at the edge of the cliff overlooking the city the same evening. There being no obvious reason for her aggression meant that Sif had to die, as the attacked men demanded. Ciaran had tried, and succeeded, to have Gwyn postpone the execution until Artorias was released so he could see his friend one last time and would be able to understand why this had to happen.

Ciaran came to him on that cliff a while later, her face hidden by her mask. Normally she would take it off if it was just them. Today, she did not.

They were at a place the eternal sun of Anor Londo no longer reached, and the sun was setting for them. To the east, the duke's archives towered into the sky, reminding them that no one had seen Duke Seath in years and of the rumors this was fueling.

“I have received word from my spies, on what has transpired in prison,” Ciaran told him, her voice so devoid of emotions it made Gough feel dread of what he was to hear.

“I did not know you had a spy among the wardens.”

“I do not. I have a spy amongst the wardens' women, and one amongst the servants preparing meals for the prisoners.”

Gough nodded in acknowledgment. The prisons were an excellent source of information, yet women were not accepted as guards, so their only access to that information was as servants, the women of more talkative wardens, or by getting themselves incarcerated as a fellow prisoner.

“What does the word say? Is it true that Sif attacked those men without reason?”

“It is not. My spy overheard two guards talk about how three of them assaulted Artorias in his cell, after letting him starve for days. They forced themselves upon him and hurt him badly, but had a healer cover the worst of his injuries before anyone could see him.”

Still her voice was devoid of emotions. Gough found his own fist smashing down upon a boulder beside him, causing it to crash down the cliff and break below without doing any harm on the way down. He watched it go in silence. That kind of assault was always despicable, but committing it on a man who was weak from starvation even though chained as he was he had no chance to fight back in the first place filled him with hot fury, and would have even if it had not been a good man and a good friend.

“Lord Gwyn must learn of this.”

“Lord Gwyn does not want to hear it. He believes the report of Ulfwen who has no reason to look even beyond an obvious deception. He will not go and see Artorias for himself. When I reported to him, he claimed that my spies could not be trusted, as they would only tell me what I wanted to hear.”

Her voice was calm, but Gough could imagine the sting of that accusation. The only thing that would have been worse was if Gwyn had implied that she herself had falsified the reports in order to spare Artorias the pain of losing Sif.

It was, it seemed, not enough that everyone but Artorias himself was aware of the feelings the poor girl had for him. Now even those who should know better believed that her judgment was clouded by them. Gwyn would not have given her the position she had if he thought that was true; that he now doubted the integrity of her spies told Gought just how deeply in denial their Lord was.

Everything was changing for the worse since the First Flame had begun to fade.

“I will talk to him,” Gough said. “I will make him see reason.”

Ciaran looked at him. He could not read her. Was she grateful? Or annoyed that he thought she could not handle this on her own?

“Like you I will do all I can to save the life of faithful Sif,” Gough explained. “And I will not let the crimes committed against friend Artorias go unpunished.”

He meant this. It was not simply words but a declaration of will. If Gwyn did not take action against the ones who had hurt Artorias, Gough would tear those two already identified by Sif apart limb by limb. He was not a violent man who delighted in bloodshed and mutilation the way Executioner Smough did, but he would do this.

Ciaran would find the rest and deal with them. He knew without asking that they were both willing to carry the consequences. Beyond their loyalty towards their friend, there was no place for creatures such as those men in the kingdom of the Sun.

They parted briefly after, with Ciaran disappearing into the falling night while Gough made his way to the cathedral. Lord Gwyn was willing to meet him in the deserted throne room, but everything about his posture told Gough that he knew what his knight had come to say and was quite tired or hearing of it.

“I gave no permission to harm him,” the lord of Anor Londo reminded the giant when he brought up the report of Ciaran's spies. “No man in this city would be foolish enough to go against my wishes like this. What are these outrageous accusations against my men? Do you doubt their loyalty so easily?”

“As you doubt the loyalty of Sif, who has served this kingdom faithfully for centuries.”

“Sif is but a beast bound to a man with a long shadow,” Gwyn said tiredly. “I am grateful for her service, but I cannot forget what she is, and now we see how easily her nature comes back when separated from her master.”

Sif was not a pet; Artorias would not take well to being called her master. “And the loyalty of Lord's Blade Ciaran? Do you think she would pick her spies so carelessly that their reports cannot be trusted? And if so, do you truly think, my Lord, that a spy trying to please her would spin a tale of how a man she cares deeply about was hurt and violated in such a way?”

“I do trust Knight Ulfwen, explicitly,” Gwyn replied, with a hint of warning in his voice. “He told me that according to Artorias himself nothing has transpired in the dungeon. Are you saying that Artorias, who has always been the most passionate about fighting injustice, would let traitors and rapists get away unpunished?”

“Not under any other circumstances, my Lord,” Gough admitted. He had given this some thought. “And yet, it does not surprise me if he reports nothing. As you said yourself, my Lord, your guards are loyal, and only a fool would go against your wishes, as nothing escapes your notice.”

Gwyn's eyes narrowed. Although he was much smaller than Gough, the giant felt suddenly threatened by his attention. “What are you implying, Knight?”

“I am not doubting Sir Ulfwen's word, nor your insight, Lord Gwyn. Yet, if anything did happen to Artorias while in your prison, he must think that it happened on your orders.”

Gwyn froze. His glare grew darker and darker with every beat of Gough's large, slow heart. “Such insolence,” his lord finally spat out. “To imply such a thing! That I would order something so outrageous.”

“And yet you do not care that it happened.” Gough was treading on dangerous ground now, but he had to see this through, for Artorias' sake. “Even if you did not order it, you are giving your approval by doing nothing. If someone did defy you so and is met with no consequences, they can only believe that they have fulfilled your will, or that your will no longer matters.”

“Knight Gough,” Gwyn said slowly, darkly. “You have served me well and faithfully for a very long time. For this reason alone I will forget what you have just said. Now leave.”

Gough left. No good would come from staying. He had planted his words in Gwyn's mind and could only hope that they would take root.

  


-

  


Less than a day passed before Gwyn made his way down to the dungeon for only the second time since having Artorias locked away here. He went without his guards; only a warden accompanied him to the cell. The glowing stones were still positioned in the wall, giving him light to see. In the silence of the almost empty prison, the gasp the warden let out upon revealing their prisoner was unnaturally loud.

Gwyn made no sound at all. No words could have encompassed his feelings. A simple look of his send the warden away to wait outside and close the door, leaving Gwyn alone with his knight.

Artorias was keeling in much the same position as he had the last time Gwyn had seen him, only now he was hanging limply in his chains, with no sign of awareness that his lord had finally come for him. Bruises covered his pale body, not few of them shaped like fingers, some like boots. When Gwyn carefully lifted his face so he could inspect it, Artorias started awake with a gasp and immediately chocked on something, resulting in retching coughs that shook his entire body.

Gwyn removed the crude blindfold as soon as Artorias was able to draw in air, his breaths rough, but steady. The knight blinked, almost blind in the sudden light, and flinched from his lord's touch before he even recognized the man standing before him.

“I am not here to hurt you, child,” Gwyn said softly, his fingers trailing as lightly as he could muster over bruises and scraped skin. Whoever had done this had clearly not expected any visitors today as no attempt had been made to hide the evidence of their crime. “And those who did will be punished, this I swear to you.”

Artorias, his eyes glassy and unfocused, made a sound like a word that died, stillborn, in his throat. Bruises and rope burn wound around his neck. Gwyn had no key for the shackles on him, but it was easy for a man with unbound hands to separate them from the chains, and so he freed Artorias from their pull and effortlessly lifted him into his arms before he could fall, not caring about the filth this left on his robes. There was a bed in the cell – a simple cot covered in hay that had been there all along but had evidently never been used. Gwyn did no longer doubt that Artorias had been chained like this all the time. He placed him on the hay now, and Artorias immediately pulled his arms towards his chest, writhing in pain and letting out a breathless groan as he bend them freely for the first time in weeks.

Gwyn sat on the edge of the cot, watching him with pity and growing fury. He called for the guard outside, called for water, and then send him to fetch his personal healer, but not without closing the door behind him. Gwyn did not have it locked. He would not be locked into his own prison, and Artorias was not going to run anyway. By the state of his knees and the pitiful trembling of his limbs, he was not going to go anywhere at all.

A human, frail creatures that they were, would likely never have recovered from this. Their own kind was more sturdy that that, but even Artorias would need time to regain his strength. He was very thin; more so than Gwyn had expected. They had obviously fed him barely enough to keep him alive. If anything happened now that required assistance that Artorias, in his present state, could not give, every single warden of this prison would be executed as a traitor to the kingdom, not only the ones who had personally laid hand upon his knight.

Gwyn's large hand found Artorias' head, stroked his dirty, uneven hair. Artorias froze, but looked at him, and his eyes were clear again as his lord carefully lifted him enough to feed him water from the flask. Artorias drank with the greed of one who had not seen water in days, and Gwyn could only imagine the tastes he had to wash off his tongue. When Gwyn took the flask away to keep him from taking too much at once, he fell back, breathing hard.

“I have called for my healer,” Gwyn told him. “He will take care of you for the rest of your sentence. My personal guards will guard this cell. And all those responsible for this will be found.” That included the healer who had superficially repaired Artorias' body after the first assault. Ciaran's spies already knew the name. Soon they would know everyone involved in this in any way.

“Your wolf Sif will be useful in pointing out the culprits. She has already proven eager to get her teeth into them, else I would not be here now. So it seems that I am indebted to her, even though I have no choice but to punish her for her rashness.”

“Punish...” Artorias' voice was but a faint rasp, but he seemed much more awake now. “No...”

“I am afraid I have no other choice. She attacked two of my men, and while I know now that she had reason to do what she did, such an act cannot be ignored. It is not upon my soldiers to take for granted my judgment and execute it on their own whim.”

“She is but...” Artorias rasped. “She cannot speak. What way does she have to communicate with you?”

“And yet you claim that she is intelligent. She should have found a way better than violence. Without the interference of Hawkeye Gough she would have slain those men, and I would have no choice but to try her for murder. As it is, she has only a whipping to expect for her transgression.”

He did not tell Artorias that but an hour ago, he had been ready to have the wolf executed for attempted murder. Artorias was upset enough as it was. Although it seemed now that it might have done him well to see that compared to what could have been, a whipping was a favorable outcome.

“No,” Artorias protested, louder now but with a voice just as ruined. Speaking had to cause him pain; Gwyn imagined that at this moment everything did. “My Lord, please, I beg of you. She is a loyal warrior, but unused to the laws and customs of our city. This is my fault; I have not taken her here enough, and have not prepared her for the case that she might have to act without me there to guide her. I agree that her behavior cannot be tolerated, but please, remain just, and merciful. Do not let her pay for my mistakes.” Artorias was breathing hard, and his words were stocking because his voice kept breaking and speaking took up too much of his air. Gwyn wanted to order him to remain quiet, but he could not say anything before Artorias added, “I swear I will teach her better once I can. Until then, as her commander, I will take her punishment upon me.”

Gwyn frowned at him as he said exactly what the Lord of Sunlight had not wanted him to say. “You cannot do this. I will not allow it.”

“You must, my Lord. The same law that forces you to punish her lets me take this punishment in her place, as she is my responsibility.”

“What a change of heart, Knight. For centuries, you have insisted on calling her your partner, your companion. You have always denied being her commander.”

“And you have always insisted on me being just that.”

Artorias held his gaze steadily. He would use this insistence of Gwyn's, that had always annoyed him, against his lord now. Gwyn was not surprised, but he was angry and irritated. Other than officially acknowledging Sif as a knight equal to his elite, which could never happen, he had no choice but to accept Artorias' sacrifice – a fact that Artorias was, of course, aware of.

Gwyn now cursed himself for saying anything about Sif at all. He should simply have the punishment carried out while Artorias was still locked away and face his anger later.

“Look at you,” he snapped. “You cannot stand. Yet you want to take on a public whipping of at least twenty lashes? How do you expect to make it through that?” To emphasize his point, Gwyn harshly placed his hand onto Artorias' bony hip, right on top of another hand shaped bruise another man had left on the feverish skin. Artorias jerked in shock and reflexively tried to sit up but Gwyn easily pressed him down so he lay helpless and defenseless. His fingers tried to claw at the hand on his chest, but in their present state his arms were nearly useless and his struggle entirely without effect.

“Too weak to fight me and ill enough to try,” Gwyn summed up Artorias' situation. The knight finally came to his senses and lay still, his breath fast and forced, his heart beating furiously under Gwyn's palm. Gwyn could feel the outline of his rips under his fingers. “I cannot go easy on you simply because you are injured and have been wronged. Do you believe the executioner will show any gentleness for you? You will be ill for days, weeks even, and unable to fight. I will not trade the safety of my people for the wellbeing of a dog.”

Artorias had no breath to speak, but Gwyn could see that he would not change his mind. A knock on the door announced the arrival of the healer, but Gwyn harshly told them to wait, even as he finally let go of his  knight and stood to go. “Knight Artorias,” he said slowly. “Your sentence will end in a week and the execution of Sif's punishment will happen the same day, with no regard to your condition o r the things you have already suffered. Are you still willing to take it upon you.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Artorias replied, the words cracked and broken, but spoken with conviction.

Gwyn glared at him darkly for another moment before he turned to the door. “So be it.”

He did not stay, as he had planned, to watch Ducan,  the healer, do his work, too angry to remain in the cell with his most beloved and frustrating knight. He had the healer come to his quarters later, at the  end of a long day, to hear his assessment.

Artorias has been healed before by someone with haste and little attention to detail, Ducan then told Gwyn what the Lord of Sunlight had already known. His body had little energy left to draw upon, but none of the wounds were deep enough to cause many problems. The worst was the state of his arms and knees. Yet, with proper care, he would be moderately well by the time he was released in a week.

Gwyn acknowledged the information with mild relief. The situation was still intolerable, but at least Artorias would not be too badly damaged by the end of it. He would not want that, ever, even if a part of him wanted to lash out and make his knight suffer.

Artorias had suffered enough. But perhaps not for the right reasons.

Gwyn's hand curled and pressed into a fist, unnoticed by all. Now that the first shock of seeing Artorias like that had worn off, the old anger returned, though not as prominent as before. He stood still for a long time after the healer had left, trying to sort though thoughts and feelings, before he called in his advisers to determine the punishment of Sif the Wolf.

  



	4. Chapter 4

The month had been very long, with only his own thoughts for company and the occasional visit of wardens he did not want to talk to and who never spoke to him beyond the bare necessities. Ornstein kept busy keeping in shape with the help of the walls and the cot and bars before the window. He kept himself entertained looking out of the window at the execution square below, watching the few people that went by on their daily business and wondered what might be going on in their lives.

There was not a lot of entertainment to be hand. Ornstein wondered how Artorias was faring, who did not even have a window. All he could do was hope that the other man was out already.

And that he had been fed better than Ornstein was. He was never forced to bear too much hunger for too long, but he had still lost weight, and muscle mass, since coming here.

His hair had grown almost long enough to go touch his shoulders again, in places. Ornstein expected to hear about his release very soon. He hoped it would happen before the dullness of his existence and the worry about all the things he could not see drove him insane.

Yet when finally someone other than a guard came to see him, it was not Gwyn, as he had expected. It was Tropane, one of his trusted knights, and he did not come to release him from his imprisonment but to bring a companion to share his cell with.

The knight could not stop himself from staring but a moment, upon seeing his captain half-naked, thin, and chained in the bright tower cell. Ornstein, for his part, was staring at Sif, the wolf, who was being led here by a chain around her neck.

Dread hit him the moment he realized the wolf had to have done something worthy of punishment.

“What happened?” he demanded, looking only at the knight. Sif growled and yapped at him, and he wondered if Gwyn had changed his mind and decided to have him killed after all, mauled to death by a giant wolf in a prison cell.

Whatever Sif had done any why, it certainly had to do with Artorias, who was imprisoned just like this by Ornstein's fault.

“I do not know, Sir Ornstein,” Tropane confessed. “No word has gone out but that the wolf has attacked two men, two prison guards.”

Ornstein froze. Yes, it had to have to do with Artorias, and whatever those guards had done, it had to be terrible.

He looked at Sif after all, and she stared at him full of hate. But she did not attack, even though she could.

“What happens to her now?” Ornstein wanted to know. “Surely her punishment is to be harsher than to be locked in with me for a while.” If the attack had been unwarranted, then Sif had to die, and right now Ornstein almost wanted her dead but for what it would do to Artorias.

“She is to stay here until the punishment has been carries out, as per Lord Gwyn's orders,” Tropane told him. Meeting Ornstein's confused gaze, he added, “Sir Artorias has claimed responsibility for her actions. He will bear her punishment this afternoon. After it has been executed, you are both to be released.”

This time Ornstein did not look at the wolf. He did not trust himself to. “I see,” was all he said in acknowledgment.

During the next hours, he watched from his window high in the tower as the square below filled with more and more people. Even from up here, he could tell that only nobles were present. The peasant population of the lower city was obviously not allowed to watch this spectacle. Still, the square filled quickly. Meanwhile, Sif was pacing the cell restlessly, growling and howling and even throwing herself at the door. Ornstein could only imagine what she would do if she got out of here. Likely something similar to what he _wanted_ to do.

They ignored each other until the procedure officially begun. From their glassed and barred window, at an angle where no one down there could see them, they watched as Executioner Smough climbed the platform before the palace wall. He stood silently, the jolly face of his helmet overlooking the spectators, and his giant hammer, ever present, had been placed behind the platform. He was holding a whip instead. Ornstein felt cold inside. He had seen before what Smough's whip could do to a convict's back.

Gwyn appeared next, flanked by Knight Ulfwen and one of his advisors. The Lord of Sunlight's face was an unreadable mask as he sat down on his ornamented seat overlooking the square.

Gough showed up just before the gates to the square were closed for any more spectators. He stood in the back, and after a moment bent down and picked up Ciaran to sit on his shoulder for better view. Neither of them showed their faces. Ornstein knew they would not give any reaction at all until this was over.

If he had not been imprisoned here, he would be down there with them, watching motionlessly from behind his lion helmet.

Artorias was the last to arrive. Two guards led him down the path to the platform and up the stairs. He climbed them slowly but under his own power. His hands were not shackled to emphasize that he had taken this punishment voluntarily rather than having it forced on him, and he walked with his back straight and his head held high. Yet a murmur of confusion and displeasure went through the crowd at the sight of one of their most beloved heroes. While Artoias' hands were free, his wrists were bandaged. His steps were unsteady enough for even someone who did not know him well to notice. He was wearing no shoes or shirt, only baggy prisoner's trousers held up by a coarse belt, and his hair, now barely touching his shoulders, no longer covered the scars previous torture had left on his back. Ornstein was familiar with those. He was, however, shocked to see the bruises, large and small, that were starkly visible on the pale skin. The left side of his torso looked so bad Ornstein was certain that rips had to be broken or at least cracked, and even having not exactly enjoyed the prison's meager meals himself, he could not believe how thin his friend was.

The trousers were hanging low enough off the bony hips that Ornstein could make out bruises disappearing below the waistband, and while he was too far away to make out any details, he froze. He had not left those marks. He had not left _any_ marks on that body. The very idea was outrageous.

Below him, ignorant of his rage and despair, Artorias stood with his back to Gwyn, facing the crowd that was to witness his punishment. No, _Sif's_ punishment. Sif, who was sitting beside Ornstein at the window, and while she seemed to have no intention to leave, Ornstein now grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her even closer to the bars. “You will _watch_ this,” he hissed.

This was on her. Although he was beginning to understand why she had attacked those guards. Ornstein wanted them dead as well. But Artorias should not have to suffer for it.

It was not Gwyn who eventually stepped to the edge of the balcony and addressed the crowd with the charges against the Sif and the verdict. It had been determined not by Gwyn himself, he explained, but by a council of his advisors as was the custom if their lord was personally affected by a crime and did not trust himself to make his decision unbiased. It was a system established to guarantee fairness, yet Ornstein resented it this moment; he resented Gwyn for falling back on it when he could have simply, knowing what he did about Sif's motives and Artorias' sacrifice, determined the lightest possible sentence, which was eighteen lashes. But he had not and the council had decided on twenty-five.

Cold rage filled Ornstein as he heard the faint voice barely reaching him in his tower. Artorias did not react at all. He did not resist when Smough walked over to him and shackled his wrists to the pole in the center of the platform.

Had the council even known why Sif had attacked those men? If the reason was why Ornstein feared, Gwyn certainly had not told anyone who did not need to know. Had they been told beforehand that Artorias would be taking the punishment, or in what condition the executioner would find him? That, too, was doubtful. It would have influenced their verdict, and to give one that was free of influence they had been chosen.

Ornstein watched Smough swing the whip at the empty air two, three times, and against the pole to show the strength of his lashes, and he blamed Gwyn. Even if his lord could not have prevented this entirely, he could have lessened it. Fewer lashes for Artorias to bear. And someone else to administer them.

For it did not have to be Smough. There were others qualified for executing such punishments. Out of all the ones available to him, Gwyn chose the most cruel one. One who delighted in causing suffering and would not hold back simply because this was Artorias he was supposed to strike. If anything, Orstein expected him to strike harder than usual, if that was even possible.

The last time he had carried out a whipping of thirty-two lashes, the sentenced man had not been alive two days later.

And Gwyn had chosen him to hurt Artorias, or at least not prevented someone else from choosing him. Was he truly prepared to damage such a dear and valuable knight this badly? Ornstein could not believe it, even now. Certainly, Smough had been ordered to go easy on the knight, to simply put up a show for the spectators. Everything else would be needlessly cruel and in no way fit the crime of either Sif or Artorias himself. The thing that Gwyn was truly punishing him for.

The whip connected with Artorias back with enough force to throw him against the pole. A murmur went through the crowd when Artorias' legs gave out even after the first blow and left him hanging by his wrists. But he struggled back to his feet and Smough waited for him to stand again before swinging his whip the second time.

This time Artorias, better braced for the impact, remained standing. Ornstein could only imagine the whiteness of his knuckles as he held on to chains binding him. He did not want to see this, but if he was forcing Sif to watch then he himself had no right to look away.

After six lashes, Smough paused for a while. Ornstein hoped against hope that Gwyn would step in now and tell him to stop. Perhaps have Sif dragged down there and force her to take the rest of the beating herself, against Artorias' wishes, if necessary. However much Ornstein despised the wolf right now, he knew she would willingly take it to spare her master further suffering. But he also knew that she would not be given a chance. The pause served to draw out the punishment – this was where Smough relished in his victims' dread, Ornstein had seen it often enough – and Gwyn would say nothing to fill it.

He remained right. After a moment, the executioner brought the whip down again, except this time he did not strike the bleeding back but Artorias' raised arms, with the right hand taking, for all Ornstein could see from up here, the brunt of the force. The dragon slayer could hear his friend's sharp cry of pain and his legs gave out again. This time he was not given time to get back to his feet; instead, Smough dealt four more lashes in quick succession, to his arms, his back, his legs and his bare feet. Three more lashes to the back followed. Blood had begun to splatter with every blow, being flung from the whip to the spectators with every swing. It seemed fitting enough, to see them tainted by it. Ornstein saw more dismay than delight in their faces, the few seconds he allowed himself to not look at the bleeding, bruised mess that was his friend, but he had no sympathy for anyone watching this right now, including himself.

Fourteen lashes. Eleven more that were still to come. Artorias was given a chance to stand again and he did it, but it took him three attempts, and two strikes later he was once again hanging in his chains, coughing helplessly and struggling for air. A minute later, he was upright again. How he found the strength to keep getting up when he did not even have the strength to scream was beyond Ornstein.

After nineteen lashes, he did not get up again. He did not even try. He did not move. Nineteen lashes from Executioner Smough, the giant Lord who prided himself with his ability to grind his victims' bones into dust with his hammer, Artorias' senses had finally fled him. It was a blessing, Ornstein told himself, to not have to feel the blows anymore. Artorias was not dead, even if from up here and this far away he looked it. Gwyn would not take things this far, if for no other reason than that a knight like Artorias was impossible to replace.

After one more lash that did nothing but sway Artorias' limp body, Smough paused again. Two servants hurried up the platform and one of them emptied a bowl of water – doubtlessly icy cold – over Artorias' head. It dripped off his hair, now so short compared to before, as he struggled to look up, leaning heavily against the pole for support.

The bandages around his wrists were soaked in blood.

Suddenly, the adviser from the balcony was on the podium, crouching before Artorias and speaking to him. It was far too quiet for Ornstein to even hear his voice, let alone make out his words. He knew what he was saying anyway. Right now, that man offered to spare Artorias any more pain if he revoked his sacrifice and let Sif bear the final five lashes of her punishment. Not all of it all over. Only the ones that had not yet been deal out.

It was a generous offer, one that was not given often. Ornstein found his own knuckles white as he gripped the bars in anticipation, barely daring to breathe. He closed his eyes, devastated but not surprised, when the adviser stepped away from him, looked at Gwyn, and shook his head.

The two servants had to help Artorias back to his feet, and he fell again almost before the next strike landed. Two lashes before it was over, the servant doused him again, then signaled Smough when he was conscious. They did not bother to make him stand this time; it was evident he could not.

The servants lingered nearby. They where there after Smough's final strike drew the whip across Artorias' strained shoulders, to unlock the shackles that were all that was holding him up now. Once free, Artorias slumped bonelessly to the ground and lay still.

Ornstein watched in utter helplessness for the long moment during which nothing at all happened. Then Ciaran appeared, pushing her way through the crowd and climbing the platform with swift movements to fall to her knees beside her friend. Ornstein had forgotten she was there.

Her hands moved towards the worst of Artorias' wounds, now leaking blood in a slowly growing pool onto the wood below him. They hovered inches from making contact, overwhelmed and not much less helpless than Ornstein watching from the tower. Meanwhile, guards cleared out the square, the spectacle being over. Gwyn stood at the edge of the balcony, looking down without movement on his stony features. Finally, Gwyn's personal healer Ducan arrived and knelt beside Ciaran, moving nimble fingers over Artorias' mutilated back and speaking words Ornstein could not make out.

A minute later, Gough, who had been waiting silently beside them, bent down and ever so gently lifted Artorias into his arms. Their friend hung limply, not even twitching when the movement put pressure on his wounds. His head fell back without support until Gough shifted him so it was resting against his massive biceps, and Ornstein could see trails of blood running down from Artorias' mouth and nose.

The giant moved past the tower, his towering form bringing the still body much closer to Ornstein's window than anything else could have, and the Dragon Slayer realized that his oldest friend was doing it on purpose. He knew Ornstein was here, and he was letting him see their friend, as he wanted to, even if it pained him. But the chance lasted for but a moment, as Gough moved on swiftly, trailed by Ciaran and the healer. They would take him to his quarters in the cathedral where he would receive healing. The next time Ornstein saw him he would be better, and they would never speak of this moment for as long as they lived.

Sif whined softly. She was by no means calmer now, nor did Ornstein feel any less agitated now that it was over. But they would be released soon. Before this day was over. Until then, he would do as much pacing as the chain around his ankle would allow.

It was preferable to staring out of the window, to the blood on the platform.

But his captivity was not yet over, nor was executioners stage quite deserted. It was not long before noise outside called Ornstein back to the window, and he saw that Gwyn had never left the balcony, not had Smough left the platform. Ornstein had believed the executioner simply intending to revel in the moment and had had no desire to watch him lick the blood he had spilled from the knight who had the position Smough wanted off his fingers, but it turned out his work was not quite done.

There were no spectators this time. Only Gwyn and his advisors, Smough, a handful of armed palace sentinels, and four men in iron now being led out of the dungeons.

They looked roughed up, but nowhere near as bad as Artorias had even before the whipping began. Their strong, well-fed physique made it evident that they had not suffered imprisonment for long, and their faces showed apprehension mixed with confusion, as if they did not quite know what to expect.

Ornstein did not need Gwyn to stand and proclaim the accusations against them to know who these men were. They had gone against Gwyn's wishes, their Lord declared, and brought harm upon a prisoner in their care for no reason other that they thought they could. They were a disgrace to their kingdom, and to be treated as traitors. Ornstein could hear one of them call out in protest. He was but a simple healer who had no power over the prisoners, he argued. Gwyn had him brought up on the platform first. The healer, he claimed, had aided the guards in their crime by covering it up. There was undeniable proof against him. Just as the man started pleading for his life and explained that he had been forced to do what he did, Smough's hammer slammed onto his body with a sickening crunch that could be heard clearly all the way up in Ornstein's cell.

Beside him, Sif watched with interest and a growl.

The other three started yelling. They were being consumed by fear this very moment, when their demise was not only imminent but also promising to be gruesome. Ornstein had no respect for this display of fear, not in guards who had vowed to protect the interests of the kingdom with their life. In this case, however, he watched the increasing horror of the condemned men with grim satisfaction. They did not deserve an honorable death. For once, Smough's tendency to be overly sadistic in his executions was met with his approval, even if it could not make up for the treatment of Artorias Ornstein had had to watch only minutes earlier.

As it turned out, the healer had been lucky. His death had been gory, but swift. The other ones had to suffer a lot longer. Smough took his time, obviously delighted by the freedom had had been granted with this execution and determined to display all his skill and creativity now that nothing was holding him back, as if that were a good thing. Gwyn watched with an unreadable face and no indication that he even heard the pleas for mercy.

It was hard to tell if the first slow, mutilating procedure was worse for the man being tortured to death or the ones watching in the knowledge it was their turn next. Ornstein did not consider himself a sadistic man, and he usually avoided such displays. Even now, he was disgusted by what he saw, but the disgust was distant and did not touch him. There was no pity in it.

He watched, along with Sif, until it was over and only the servants tasked with cleaning away the blood remained. Not long after the third of the former guards had breathed his last, another prison guard appeared in the cell to free Ornstein of the shackle around his ankle and inform him that his sentence was officially over.

Ornstein had hoped that Gwyn would come in person. He had not expected it, and had not even been aware of the hope until he felt the disappointment over his lord's failure to come. There was no reason why he should have done so, however. Gwyn owed him no show of respect. But Ornstein felt he owed him _something_ , after what he had just had to watch happen to Artorias in Gywn's name.

Remorse, perhaps. An acknowledgment of having gone too far.

He would not get any such thing, not now nor ever. Gwyn would not face him in this matter. Ornstein, remembering his place, would not bring it up.

Perhaps it was better he had not come. His presence would only serve as a reminder of how powerless Ornstein was. He could come and act like nothing had ever happened and his knight would have to go with it, with no word of protest, now that his position was so fragile.

He left his cell after being handed a stack of his own informal clothes to dress in. No one met him on his way down the tower but Sif, rushing past him in a hurry. Ornstein resisted the urge to run as well, not only because of the pain in his ankle, rubbed raw by the iron. He carried himself with as much dignity as he could, but as he reached the public halls on the ground floor and people stopped to stare at him and whisper about his shorter hair and his diminished form, he found that he did not care as much as he used to about what they thought.

The plaza he crossed on the way to the back of the cathedral was bordering on the execution square. He did not glance in the direction of the heavy grate blocking anyone from entering. People were standing close to it, talking about the screams they had heard. People were standing everywhere, talking in hushed voices. Servants, soldiers, some of the nobles who had witnessed Artorias' whipping. Ornstein did not look at any of them. He passed the gate to the cathedral's backyard without looking at the guards flanking the wide arch in the wall blocking if from the more public areas, and they did not try to stop him, nor did they react to his presence in any way.

He found Gough sitting on the steps leading up to the building. The steps were high and wide enough for a human sized creature to find them uncomfortable, with only a small stripe at the side granting easier access for those not as tall as an average lord, but they were tiny for Gough's massive form. While he could easily enter the front of the cathedral and the official chambers within, the back led to the private quarters of the highest ranking members of the court and army, and had never been meant for the access of giants – not even after one of them fit the description. His place of residence was elsewhere.

Doubtlessly, he had handed Artorias over to someone else to carry inside at this point. Doubtlessly, Ciaran was still with their friend, and without a doubt, Sif was here as well. Ornstein walked past the giant with barely a nod of acknowledgment, not in the mood to talk and eager to get inside. Gough merely nodded back, not asking for more.

Ornstein entered and went up the stairs, currently being cleaned by a servant. He had the morbid thought that the woman was cleaning away blood, knowing that it was a distinct and even likely possibility.

The stairs branched three quarters of the way up, the left leading to the wing in which his own quarters were located, the stairs to the right still glistering with moisture from being cleaned. Ornstain climbed them, walking down the corridor until two guards standing in front of the door to Artorias' rooms stopped him.

Knights in silver armor. Knights under his command. They stopped him with the explanation that Lord Gwyn had ordered not to let him enter his fellow knight's quarters. Ornstein looked at them for a long time, contemplating many things he wanted to say. The guards did not seem to question the order they had been given, but then, if they did, they knew better than to show it. Ornstein could not blame them for following the command of one higher then him. He would not degrade himself by arguing, would not start a fight that he knew he could win even in his current state. Gwyn was not here to be told that Ciaran and the healers were in there as well so that Ornstein and Artorias would not be alone as per Gwyn's wishes, and that he was being needlessly cruel.

He left. Gough was still on the stairs, keeping silent watch from as close as he could get. Ornstein sat down beside him, staring into space. “I am not permitted to enter Artorias' quarters,” he told his old friend without looking at him. His sense of time told him that it was late in the day, but the sun was a high as ever, and his sense of time might be mistaken. The time in prison had been long, the days blurring into one.

“That seems unnecessary,” Gough rumbled softly. “My condolences.”

Ornstein snorted. Sif was in there, he was certain. If she had been banned from entering, she would have been in the hallway, growling at everyone who came too close. It was her fault Artorias had been so badly hurt and yet there were no repercussions for _her_.

Ornstein still did not know what exactly had happened, beyond what the guard had told him and what he had gathered from the marks left on Artorias' body and the fate of the executed. He would ask Gough, but not here. The yard was deserted but for them, but it was hardly a place for conversations he felt would better be held away from prying ears.

Although privacy was hard to come by these days. Not even his own chambers, it seemed, were safe from the curious. Ornstein did not know what he would do the next time he met Knight Ulfwen. He could not fault the man for following his duty by reporting to Gwyn what he had seen (although he did fault him), but he could blame him for having been where he would see them in the first place.

“How is Artorias?” he finally asked. “Have you received word?”

“Not yet. He was deeply unconscious when we came here. If luck his with him, he is still beyond pain and the healers can keep him that way until the worst is healed.”

“He was already weak when it started,” Ornstein said carefully. It was not quite a question. Gough turned his head in acknowledgment; without looking at him, Ornstein could see it in the giant's shadow on the stairs. “That he was. But I am confident that the healers will know his limits. Lord Gwyn send his personal physician to take care of our friend until he is mended.”

 _'How generous,'_ Ornstein thought bitterly. If the Lord of Sunlight was truly as invested in Artorias' well being as he appeared, he certainly was lacking consequence in showing it.

They sat in silence after that, for a long time. Ornstein wondered if he was expected back on duty already. Was he supposed to simply re-assume his position as if nothing had happened? Would he be informed what he had to do now? Was this one of Gwyn's games of punishment he had never before suspected their lord was fond of?

He needed to know what was going on first, in the city and around it. Someone needed to report to him, and he made a list in his mind of soldiers under his command he would call to him so they could inform him of all the relevant things he had missed. Yet he did not move. Not until even the place beyond the backyard emptied with the advanced hour and Ciaran finally came down the stairs to tell them how Artorias was doing.

  



	5. Chapter 5

Ciaran was torn between open windows and closed curtains. Fresh air could only benefit Artorias, especially after the long time in the dark, subterranean dungeon, and certainly he would appreciate the light. But today the sunlight outside seemed more fake to her than ever, and the eternal, golden afternoon brightness was grating on her nerves. How wonderful it would be, if she could take her friend out of the city to recover in a place more natural than this, where the sun would set and a soft evening breeze might carry the scent of rain.

Some place out there, that was not intent on hurting him.

Sif whined softly behind her, and when she turned, she saw the wolf looking at her, as if she was reading her thoughts. The creature was lying beside the bed, keeping an eye on the door and the open window. Artorias had come to when she had slipped in hours earlier, and while he had been unable to even lift his hand, he had still scratched her between the ears in greeting when Sif had pushed her head underneath his arm. He'd passed out in that position a minute later, and Sif had not moved until one of the healers had pushed her out of the way.

They had placed Artorias on his side, so there would be no more pressure than absolutely necessary on either his back or his broken rips. His right hand was broken as well, the bones having given in to the force of the whip landing on it. Healing magic was knitting the abused body together now, but the damage was grave and the process slow, and the healers were careful not to draw more strength from their patient than he could spare. Even with their help, it would be a long time before Artorias would be back on his feet. Longer, still, until he could fight.

He had not shown any sign of waking for many hours. Ciaran was glad, for it spared him a great amount of discomfort, but she also worried. Seeing him awake and aware would have given her some peace.

Right now, one of the three healers present was carefully tending to the oozing welts on Artorias' back. Gwyn's personal healer, Ducan, placed a hand on the knight's forehead and closed his eyes, muttering incomprehensible fragments of words. Ciaran was wearing a mask; she wasn't in a habit of making her feelings known.

She turned back to the window and looked at the sun-drenched city.

Later, it was just her lingering in the room, and Sif, watching the door. The healers were gone, but they were nearby, so that she might call them were they needed. Someone needed to be with Artorias at all times, keep an eye on his condition and call help should he take a turn for the worse, or should he wake, for he would be in a considerable amount of pain. Sif was unlikely to leave anytime soon, but it had to be someone who could speak.

It did not have to be Ciaran.

Pulling the heavy curtain before the open window far enough that Artorias and the bed were in shadow, she remembered the first time she had held vigil over this man, in another room for he did not have space of his own then, back when Ciaran had barely known and didn't love him. After months of disappearance, he had bust into the throne room in the middle of a meeting, dirty and bleeding and with a young wolf in tow, and had immediately collapsed; his injured legs having carried him where he needed to go and refusing to carry him any further. Conspirators against Lord Gwyn had held him captive and attempted to torture him into compliance, but he had escaped instead and carried word to Anor Londo, where the reaction was immediate.

Even though Artorias had held no official rank in Gwyn's army at the time, his word carried weight with their lord. It was the reason why the traitors had targeted him in the first place, hoping they might use his unique position to their advantage. Indeed, many had wondered if he had betrayed them after all, and his injuries were simply for show, but Gwyn had never doubted him and his trust had been warranted, in the end.

It was a good thing their lord had such faith in him, as Artorias himself had been unable to argue in his favor, having passed out the moment he had finished his report. He had been taken to a guest room and Princess Gwynevere herself had involved herself in his care out of gratitude for his service to the kingdom. Since they now knew that there were traitors even among the knights and Artorias was helpless to defend himself against any attack they might make on him in retribution, Ciaran, still new then to her position as leader of the band of spies and assassins she had founded, had been ordered to stay by his side at all times.

Meanwhile, her spies were flushing out conspirators. Arrests were made all over the city, fighting broke out that she could hear from her place by that window, and she had itched to be there, take part in that. Being ignorant of how precious this rankless knight was to her lord even then, the task of watching over him when she would have been more useful elsewhere had irked her, had felt like a dismissal, and for all that she had respected Artorias even in the eraly days, a part of herself that she never voiced had resented him for it as he lay oblivious and dressed in nothing but bandages in her reluctant care.

That had been very long ago. Much had changed since then, yet the sight before her was painfully familiar. Again, Artorias, who was slim and lanky at the best of times, was painfully thin from deliberate starvation. Again he was covered in bruises left by men who had beaten and raped him. Again he was very still, and utterly oblivious to her presence.

Again, Sif was by his side, not in secret this time, and much bigger than she had been before.

Sif was not the same she had been then, a scared, orphaned child who had latched onto Artorias because he had been kind to her. This time, there was no need to protect Artorias from their own soldiers, but if there were, Sif would be strong enough to do so. This time, Artorias had been tortured not with purpose, but merely for the amusement of those who had hurt him. And the worst of his injuries had been caused not by traitors but on Lord Gwyn's orders.

Ciaran did not fault her lord. He had acted as the law had demanded of him – it would not be a just rule she supported if he made exceptions or bent to law for people he cared about more than about others. Still, it was regrettable that things had to get this far. Especially since it had resulted in so much pain for someone who had done nothing to deserve it.

Sif again turned to look at her as if reading her thoughts. Ciaran slowly shook her head, more to herself than to the wolf. She did not fault Sif her actions either, as much as they had nearly led to her pointless death. The men she had tried to kill had deserved death, and if Sif had not taken action, chances were that they would still go free, their crimes unrecognized and unpunished. The thought must have been unbearable to Artorias' companion, who could smell and sense that those men had done to her friend but had been unable to communicate it in any way. And Ciaran knew that Sif would never have allowed Artorias to take on the punishment meant for her if she had been given any choice.

Still, perhaps there would have been a better way to handle all this; one that did not end with Artorias getting publicly whipped within an inch of his life by a man who relished in causing him pain.

It would have been best, of course, if none of this had ever happened at all. If neither Artorias nor Ornstein had been arrested and the entire situation had not come to pass. Ciaran did not know what her two friends had done to anger their lord so much he thought weeks of imprisonment were an appropriate punishment. No word had been spoken of the reason anywhere her spies could hear, and she suspected that Lord Gwyn, Ornstein and Artorias were the only one who knew.

And Sir Ulfwen. Ciaran had learned that the order to arrest half of Gwyn's most trusted knights had come after the other knight had gone to report something to him. She did not know what.

She could guess.

The role she played for their kingdom meant that she was good at reading people. And while she had never been able to exactly name what had been going on between Ornstein and Artorias for as long as she had known them, she had seen plainly that there was something that set them apart from other people to each other, whether they had been aware of it or not.

It had not been like the feelings she herself had for Artorias – feelings she allowed herself to have, secure in the knowledge that they could never lead to anything they were not allowed to lead to. Ciaran had sworn off personal relationships that went deeper than cameradice when she had accepted her summon into the ranks of Gwyn's knights, and in a way it had been a relief that the man she loved did not return her feelings or was even aware of them. There may have been temptations, had there been a mutual desire. Ciaran would not have given in to them, but they would have been harder to resist.

Still, running her fingers ever so softly through Artorias' hair as he lay unconscious, she could not help but wonder what it would feel like to have him return the gesture. And if Ornstein had done this, while Artorias was awake and aware and invited him to continue.

Their feelings for each other were not like hers, but perhaps they were not all that different, either.

Still, it was a surprise, and surprises were rare in her life. But Artorias was not well these days – he hid it well, but his work in New Londo seemed to wear on him in ways that worried Ciaran and that she was not certain could be repaired. What if Ornstein had offered comfort, and Artorias had taken it? Was it really that simple? They were aware of the rules that ought to have kept them apart, and she knew neither of them to discard them so lightly. Had Artorias been so desperate for something to hold on to that he would forget them?

Had Ornstein taken advantage of his desperation?

She did not think so. Ciaran and Ornstein did not always see eye to eye, but then, none of the four of them did. He was her leader, and she respected and trusted him, and knew he would never use anyone for selfish reasons. Still, she wondered.

She knew that perhaps she ha gotten the situation all wrong, but did not think she had.

She did not wonder if Artorias would have come to her had she been the one to offer that kind of comfort, knowing that he would not. There lay no bitterness in this thought, but an amount of sadness at the circumstances they all found themselves in. There was no fairness in it. Artorias should not have to be punished for needing comfort after having been forced to take on a task they all knew would destroy him in the end.

And that was where Ciaran was certain she had missed something, that there was more to this mess than simply her fellow knights breaking an unwritten rule. Had they lain with each other and Gwyn had learned of it, he would have reprimanded them, perhaps punished them in small ways. He would not have thrown them in jail for weeks. He would not have relinquished control for so long and allowed for whatever happened to Artorias to go unobserved.

The Lord of Sunlight was not that cruel. More than that, he loved Ornstein, who had been his faithful knight since the age of dragons, and he adored Artorias, perhaps more than he did any other person safe for his remaining children. He would never punish them so harshly for something so small.

There was more to it. There had to be.

Whatever it was, Gwyn had not intended for things to turn out the way they had, that much Ciaran knew with certainty. Her heart ached for him when she though how he must have felt, watching Executioner Smough carry out the punishment others had determined his stead, when he could not trust himself not to go too easy on his beloved knight for a crime he had not committed, when he was already so weak from weeks of abuse.

When Smough's whip had landed on Artorias' body, over and over, with enough force to break his bones, she has wanted nothing more than for her lord to speak up and put and end to this, yet at the same time she had known that he would not. The laws of his rule would not allow it. The love of his people required that all were treated equally.

Artorias had had a choice. No one had forced him to take on the punishment in Sif's stead. He could have let his friend take the final few blows, when it was almost over.

Beneath the mask, Ciaran's face was wet. She was alone but for Artorias and Sif, who knew her face, yet she did not take off the mask, unwilling to acknowledge her tears even to herself. She did not know what to do with them. Her hands, still stroking through Artorias' unevenly cut hair, were trembling.

She had no one to confide in her feelings. This was too sensitive a matter for outsiders. Artorias would be the person she turned to with everything else. Gough did not fit into any room in this city where they could truly be alone, and she did not want to bother him with it. She did not know how much he knew.

She did not, she found, have any words to put to her pain that was so insignificant compared to the suffering of those around her and should not take up anyone's time.

Her hand now found Artorias unbroken one, lying limply on the cover, the wrist wrapped in gauze. His skin was very warm; he was beginning to run a fever. Soon he would be burning with it.

The healing magic slowly knitting together his wounds was draining his body of all energy. Weak as he had already been, Ciaran feared for her friend's recovery. There was not much energy left to draw from. They had to take care that he did not come in contact with anyone carrying any kind of sickness in them that he could not fight off now. But even if they kept him isolated, there was no guarantee that he would not fall ill before he had regained his strength. He would be fragile for a long time.

Too long, perhaps. The practical part of Ciaran, the woman who had sworn to protect this land and its people above anthing else, worried about the things Artorias could not help them with until he was back to his full health. If the servants of the Abyss unleashed an attach on New Londo now, he would not be there to fight them, and anyone Lord Gwyn dispatched in his stead would lack Artorias' skill and experience. But even beyond that, his sword and foresight would be sourly missed in any conflict that was to come up. Ciaran feared that this incident, beyond hurting a dearly beloved friend, may have doomed innocent people they would be able to save under different circumstances.

Sif suddenly whined softly, climbed to her feet, and nuzzled Artorias' limp hand. After a brief moment, she whined again and settled back into her place beside the bed, watching the room. Ciaran observed the short interaction with curiosity, wondering what may have prompted it.

It had seemed deliberate, would not have looked out of place had the wolf tried to sooth his friend from a bad dream, but Artorias was showing no sign of distress. His sleep appeared as deep and undisturbed as it had for hours.

That did no mean it truly was as peaceful as it seemed. Sif had her beastly instincts, and shared a bond with Artorias that none but them was likely to ever understand. Perhaps her comfort had indeed been needed.

The simple gesture reminded Ciaran of how inadequate she was. There was very little she could do but sit here and watch Artorias' pale face on which bruises had not even begun to fade, to make sure that his breathing remained even.

Even that she would not be able to do for long, duty calling her elsewhere soon enough. But she would do it as long as she could, wanting her fellow knight to be in the company of friends rather than virtual strangers, even if he did not know it. And out of the three closest to him in this city, Ciaran was the only one who could be here for him. She had heard the guards turn Ornstein away at the door. Something not unexpected if her suspicion about their transgression were correct, but in light of the circumstances, it seemed petty.

Only she could be here, and Sif. The wolf was saved from banishment by her nature, Ciaran suspected – hardly anyone took her seriously as a person, so even though she had been subject to to the Lord Gwyn's judgment, no one had thought to punish her further by keeping her away from her companion. Or perhaps they were simply scared of a great wolf stalking the streets without anyone to keep the beast in check. Be it as it may, Ciaran was glad, and so, she suspected, was Sif.

How the wolf was feeling about all this, about her role in it, about the consequences, Caran could only speculate. She would not ask Artorias, the only one who could give an answer she could understand. She would not ask Sif either, who would understand the question even if she could not give an explanation. There seemed precious little point to it.


End file.
